


damn, this love is skintight

by lucrezia



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, and there's a sherlock reference i hope you get, i think i'm going mad, this is ridiculous and it's just pining!Louis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-28
Updated: 2013-04-28
Packaged: 2017-12-09 19:09:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/776990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucrezia/pseuds/lucrezia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times that Louis' told to get a grip. Well, four and a half.</p>
            </blockquote>





	damn, this love is skintight

**Author's Note:**

> This is me trying to bring about an end to my writing drought. Title's from Domino by Jessie J because that got me in the mood, and I don't own the band, blah, blah, blah. It's been beta-ed by the absolutely brilliant icedlattetall, and I've no idea what else I'm supposed to write here so let's just pretend that I've covered all of the necessities, yeah? (I should really be studying! :D)

**One. Zayn Malik.**

They’re lounging about Louis’ flat on one of those rare, coveted evenings when they’re free of stifling interviews and draining concerts, with boxes of Chinese takeaway set in front of them and reruns of Downton Abbey playing on the telly. It’s not like Louis expects it, not when he’s just managed to swallow a rather large mouthful of lo mein, and Mary’s just turned Matthew down (again), but then Zayn’s speaking and Louis just wants the ground to open up and swallow him whole. Repeatedly.

 

“So, about this thing you have for Harry.”

 

“Who the fuck told you?” Louis demands incredulously, head whipping around and eyes narrowing. But it’s only then that it dawns on him that he’s walked – no, he’s fucking _traipsed_ – right into a trap, because there’s this sly, victorious grin twisting itself onto Zayn’s lips and Louis just really wants to slam his head against the first wall he can find (which is just as well, because he can spot four surrounding them just now). 

 

“I’m not stupid,” Zayn replies, rolling his eyes dramatically.  “I notice things.”

 

“It was Eleanor, wasn’t it?”

 

“I think she sent out a mass text, I’m not sure.”

 

 “I’m going to kill her,” Louis mumbles, slumping in defeat. “I told her that in _confidence_.”

  
“She said you were drunk, Lou. Drunk and _crying_.”

 

“I fail to see what your point is.”

 

“It’s not like nobody’s seen it coming from a mile off, though,” Zayn continues as if Louis’ never opened his mouth, shrugging in that nonchalant manner that only Zayn can pull off (no, really, Louis’ tested and failed spectacularly to emulate it at several opportune moments). “You’re not exactly subtle.”

 

“This is seriously not up for discussion,” Louis warns, scrubbing a hand over his face and sinking into the sofa. Zayn smiles knowingly in response; in that inescapably aggravating way that has Louis battling his dwindling common sense in the fading hope that he’ll be allowed to drown himself in a vat of sweetened tea. “This is never, _ever_ going to be up for discussion.”

 

And, fuck, if that isn’t the litany that Louis swears his life by. Because Louis knows what’s coming next, knows that Zayn’s going to blatantly ignore his half-arsed attempts to veer the conversation off topic, and that he’s going to be mumbling into an empty carton of ice cream before they cross midnight. (It’s not like Louis’ been faced with confrontation more times than necessary, it’s just that he’s aware of Zayn’s natural proclivity towards initiating confrontation with the aid of overpriced dairy products.) 

 

Zayn barks out a laugh, mischief glinting in his eyes. “Or so you say.”

 

“We are _not_ talking about this.”

 

“L _ou_ is.”

 

“ _Zay_ n.”

 

“El said you drank yourself sick,” Zayn extols pointedly, raising an eyebrow, “and that you wouldn’t stop crying about how much you miss Harry.”

 

Louis snorts, suppressing the urge to smile. “I’m sure those were her exact words.”

 

“And he obviously misses you, too.”

 

The mirth splayed across his face curdles instantaneously. “Yeah, you can really tell, can’t you?”

 

“He shouldn’t have left, I know.” Zayn pulls Louis into a hug; wrapping his arms around him and pressing a chaste kiss to his forehead. “But he -”

 

“He _shouldn’t_ have left,” Louis agrees, his voice a low whine, as he buries his face in the juncture between Zayn’s neck and shoulder. “Bloody tosser, him. Don’t like him at all – nope, not at all.”

 

“Lou.”

 

“With his stupid curls and his stupid eyes and his stupid face.”

 

“You really need to tell him how you feel.”

 

“No,” Louis intones petulantly, thumping Zayn on the arm with a little (a lot) more force than is necessary. “I’m not _telling him how I feel_. Jesus, I’m not some bloody fourteen year old girl trying to get Harry Styles to notice me, thank you very much.”

 

A smile lingers on Zayn’s lips, and he looks inordinately pleased with himself. “Well, you’re acting like one.”

 

“Shut _up_ ,” Louis interrupts waspishly, “you’re worse than Eleanor is.”

 

They lapse into silence for a heartbeat, before –

 

“You say that, but, if you think about it, she’s really the only one who knows how to nab a member of One Direction, isn’t she?”

 

Louis promptly hits Zayn in the face with a pillow.

 

x

 

**Two. Jay Tomlinson.**

 

Louis’ got this thing where, if he’s feeling vaguely threatened by the growing pile of laundry at the foot of his dresser, he escapes to his childhood home. It’s not just because he knows he’ll have a doting mother waiting for him back in the suburbs of Doncaster, no. He’s not _that_ self involved. It’s also because he knows that Niall will probably wander into his apartment during his absence, will nearly burst an aneurysm at the mess he’ll encounter, and shall then proceed to, with great determination, tidy it all himself. 

 

Louis blames Harry for it, to be honest – on behalf of himself, his mum, Niall, and the entirety of the United Kingdom. (Because had Harry been a good enough mate – boyfriend, if Louis’ imagination was allowed to run rampant – he wouldn’t have moved out of their shared flat and into a trendy new house up on Primrose, wouldn’t have left Louis to fend off minor household fires and numerous hours of boredom all on his own. But, nope, he’d moved out right on the cusp of the end of the summer, probably preferring to party it up and whatnot with Nick and his flock of borderline psychotic hipsters. Louis’ not spiteful, really, he’s not. He just misses eating a proper breakfast every morning and having the luxury of cuddles whenever he wished for them.)

 

So Louis escapes to Yorkshire, taking the afternoon train up north, and bursting through the doors of his mother’s house to the background music of his sisters’ high-pitched cries of surprise. He hugs each and every one of the little rugrats, making damn sure to muss Lottie’s hair even as she squirms and pulls herself out of his grip. And when his mum pulls him into a hug, he just flings himself into her arms and stays there until Jay’s chuckling softly and dragging his mewling form into the kitchen.

 

“So,” his mum starts, bustling about and putting the kettle on; rolling her eyes only somewhat fondly as Louis climbed onto the counter, “how’re the boys – how’s Harry?”

 

There’s nothing unusual about her asking after – after _him_ , because they’ve been inseparable for the better part of almost three years – or they used to be, at least – but Louis visibly flinches at the question. His mum knows that Harry’s a topic that’s off-limits, mostly because she was the one who took the brunt of his rage when Harry left, was the one who had to handle his brooding until he’d ventured back to London.

 

Louis doesn’t _really_ know how Harry is these days, because the nursing of his pride takes precedence over Harry’s wellbeing. He’s not talked to Harry since the latter moved out, has reserved withering glares and snippy responses specifically for him because Louis’ not emotionally equipped to handle his best friend moving out without even the ghost of a warning. Harry’s been patient, obviously – it’s driven Louis slightly insane, Harry’s indifference and mild amusement – facing Louis’ petulance with an adroitly constructed wall of forbearance.

 

Louis really, really hates him. (Except, y’know, he doesn’t. He wishes he did, though. It’s the dimples; he can’t defy the dimples.)

 

“They’re fine,” he answers shortly, shrugging for emphasis, lest his mother labour under the misapprehension that he’s bullshitting her. “Harry’s great.”

 

Jay throws him a smile that’s not wholly reassuring, and Louis eyes her warily; frowning. It’s not like he’s expecting anything (though he’d never put it past Zayn to text his mother, carefully outlining what symptoms Louis’ exhibiting that verify that he’s an idiot in dire need of an intervention), but he’s not entirely sure why his mother’s furtively glancing at him like he’s swallowed a ticking bomb.  

 

“What?” Louis asks bluntly, eyebrows knitting together. “What’s wrong?”

 

His mum looks hesitant, almost as if she’s pondering whether or not it’s worth it to reply. But then she heaves a sigh. “You don’t think I mind, do you?”

 

Louis blinks, but there’s nothing witty or remotely eloquent coming to mind, because – “What.”

 

“Louis,” his mother reasons, stressing the _eeh_ sound the same way she used to whenever she’d catch Louis with his hand in the biscuit jar (so, basically, his last trip ‘round). “I realise that you might not want to discuss this with me, but I would never stop loving you, you have to know that.”

 

“I have no idea what you’re -”

 

“I’m your mum, Lou; you can’t hide anything from me.”

 

Louis’ eyes narrow, the blue of them drowning in the frothing concoction of suspicion and outrage, his lips mashing into a thin line. “You’ve been talking to Zayn, haven’t you?”

 

“Of course not,” Jay scoffs, handing him a mug of tea. “Eleanor mentioned that you -”

 

“I’m going to _murder_ her.”

 

“Don’t be melodramatic, love, she’s just looking out for you,” his mum says, the softness in her voice giving way for derision. “And you’ve always fancied Harry; I don’t see why you can’t just talk to him about -”

 

“Mum.”

 

“I’m sure he feels the same way.”

 

A low growl vibrates deep in his throat, as Louis trains his gaze upon the linoleum floors. “Do you guys just sit around discussing who I might or might not fancy?”

 

“That’s really not much of a discussion, is it, love?”

 

x

 

**Three. Lux Atkin.**

 

The thing is – even though Louis’ a firm advocator of devilishly good-looking blokes with sharply carved collarbones and smiles that have the ability to cure cancer or initiate world peace – Harry Styles should not be legal. It’s not that Harry’s so pretty it’s ridiculous, or that his eyes light up whenever Louis’ particularly affectionate. It’s not even that England’s deficient in sunshine solely because Harry’s just completely made of the stuff. It’s not.

 

It’s that Harry Styles is golden; he’s this monolithic juggernaut that’s run Louis over again, and again, and again, up until the point that Louis’ been reduced to nothing but a near hysterical entity of self doubt and passive aggressive pining. And Louis’ seen him grow, is the thing. He’s seen him sprout from this skinny boy with too much hope in his veins and a smile as his best defence, to this – this darling, beautiful person who’s got his story inked across his body just waiting to be decrypted and a smile that’s not quite as genuine as it was when he first stepped onto the X Factor stage. He’s golden, he’s young, he’s disillusioned. And, fuck, Louis loves him.

 

They’re lounging about their dressing room, prepping for another photoshoot, when Louis feels the remnants of his sanity disintegrating.

 

Because, even as Lou curses him under her breath for lacking the ability to stay still while she combs through his hair, Louis can see Harry’s lithe form at the edge of his periphery, with tiny, little Lux Atkin in his arms.  This just really, really isn’t fair.

 

“Deal with it,” Lou mutters, and Louis blinks up at her, confused. He really should stop talking to himself. She steps back, scrutinising his face. “Right, go on, and send your boyfriend over.”

 

Louis sputters in sheer indignation, but he’s already being nudged out of his seat. He capers over to where Harry’s crouching down and helping Lux waddle across the carpeted floors

 

“I must leave you, fair maiden,” Harry mock sighs, gaze wavering from where his legs are bracketing the blonde toddler up to Louis; green eyes shining, pink lips skinning back across his teeth in a grin. “Hiya, Lou.”

 

He’s obviously trying to kill Louis.

 

Louis bends down, screwing his face and crowing victoriously when he elicits a bubbly laugh from Lux. “Hey.”

 

“Still mad?”

 

Louis spares Harry a glance, instantly regretting it. Because Harry’s cooing at Lux, eyes unfocussed, and smile infectious; a gangly mess of limbs and muscle and warmth and home. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

 

He wouldn’t think it possible – really, it shouldn’t be – but when Harry turns to smile at him, Louis tracks the flare of light in his eyes: tracks it, captures it, memorises it. There’s that thing that Harry does; that thing which makes Louis’ heart twinge and press up against his ribcage as if it’s trying to escape its confines. He’s there, and he’s Louis’. Just for a second, but for a second too many.

 

“Alright,” Harry offers, directing Lux towards Louis with a few mumbled endearments. He opens his mouth as if there are words on his tongue, but then he shrugs, shaking his head and thinking better of it. Louis watches him clamber back to his feet and walk away.

 

“I think he’s trying to kill me,” Louis tells Lux, pulling her into his arms and pecking her forehead. “I mean – like, he could like me back, right?”

 

Lux gapes at him, before breaking out into a toothy smile. Louis takes it as affirmation.

 

“Unless he really is straight,” Louis prattles on glumly, voice dropping against the backdrop of a silent sigh, “which, really, I don’t think he is. He’s always been just as handsy as I have, it’s not like I’ve been dreaming it all up. He was the one who’d crawl into my bed claiming that he couldn’t sleep alone.”

 

Lux continues to smile as enigmatically as a one year old possibly can. “Jaat.”

 

“Unless he just generally has no regard for personal space whatsoever,” Louis concedes, frowning slightly at the little blonde. “You’re right about that. But it’s not like I’ve ever _minded_.”

 

He looks at Lux to gauge her reaction, absentmindedly playing with the ponytail sticking up from the top of her head. She just scrunches his shirt up in her tiny hands, determination etched across her face.

 

“I _know_ , right?” Louis enthuses; ignoring the questioning glance he can feel Harry boring into the side of his head from across the room. (He really, really, really hopes that that’s his good side, and that Harry’s just admiring how chiselled his jaw is.) “If I was Harry, I’d totally go for me, too.”

 

Lux looks up then, her eyebrows knitted together. She pokes Louis in the chin.

 

Louis scowls, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. “Grimshaw.”

 

It’s not like Louis’ threatened by Nick – please, that would be ridiculous.

 

It’s just that he’s threatened by Nick.

 

Because Louis knows he’s no longer Harry’s best friend; knows that he’s been replaced by someone who’s taller and weirder and has a tendency to be scarily awake at six in the morning. That’s alright, though, for the most part. Even if it’s really not, but then, Louis can’t do anything about it.

 

“Nobody in their right mind would like Grimshaw over me,” he reminds Lux, scoffing just to strengthen his point. “Not even Harry.”

 

Lux looks unimpressed. She gets it from her mother. “Hazzy.”

 

“He _can’t_.” Louis hugs the kid close, burying his face against her tummy. “God, I’m pathetic. I should just talk to him about it, shouldn’t I?”

 

Lux pats him consolingly on the head, laughing out a gurgling, “Yes!” as Louis tickled her sides.

 

x

 

**Four. Eleanor Calder.**

“ _You_ ,” Louis screams, pointing an accusatory finger towards the bane of his existence. “I am going to fucking _kill_ you.”

 

“Aw, Lou, I bet you say that to all the girls,” Eleanor replies coolly, tone saccharine. She’s looking abnormally cheery, like she’s already mapped out exactly how she’s going to pester him all day. “No, seriously, I bet you do, because there are eight year old girls who’ve got the balls to tell Harry they love him, and you don’t.”

 

“I told you I like Harry out of confidence!”

 

“You told me because you were drunk and didn’t have anyone else to talk to.”

 

Louis grabs at Eleanor’s hand as they’re ushered through the gates of the zoo, clenching around her fingers as hard as he can.  It’s not that he doesn’t like Eleanor, of course he likes her, but then he’s not exactly in love with her either. “Semantics, Calder. You had no right.”

 

Eleanor snorts out a derisive laugh; raising a pencilled eyebrow at him. “You polished off my liquor stash, and wept about how Harry’s never going to love you back.”

 

“What’s your point?”

 

“That you’re an idiot, and I don’t get paid enough to date you.”

 

Louis opens his mouth to reply, grappling for something eternally clever and biting to say, but then he just shrugs; conceding defeat. It’s not like she’s wrong. “Yes, but your job description doesn’t include telling the entire fucking world that -”

 

“You’re an arsehole with severe commitment issues and a penchant for melodrama?”

 

“Oh, so that’s what you’ll be telling your little cult following on Twitter?”

 

“Hilarious, Lou, really,” Eleanor quips, looping an arm around Louis’ and guiding him towards the meerkat encampment. “But I’ll be having the last laugh when you confess to Harry that you want to marry him and have lots of sex and babies.”

 

Louis whines, shoving Eleanor away before realising that there are fans around. “I do _not_ want to marry him and have lots of sex and babies.”

 

“I’m sure.”

 

“It’s not even biologically possible for me to have his kids.”

 

“Like that’s going to stop the two of _you_.”

 

Louis barks out a laugh, eyes crinkling around the edges. Because that’s true enough, the fact that they’ve done more than they could’ve ever hoped for – done more than should be possible;  gone from being kids with dreams, to being kids with just about everything. Except freedom. Freedom evades all five of them, because they’ve signed it away; signed it away, and now they’re just little birds, caged and singing, with clipped wings and waning control.

 

“Okay, what if I do tell him,” Louis starts quietly, leaning in to speak into Eleanor’s ear. “Management wouldn’t take that well at all – they’d never let us go public, or -”

 

“Lou, I’m not saying that you should be the poster couple for misunderstood gays everywhere.” Eleanor looks up at him, concern flitting across her face. “Just have sex, go on holiday or summat.”

 

Louis scrunches his nose up, frowning. “Right.”

 

“And if Harry just happens to dislodge that pole you’ve got stuck so far up your arse that it’s making you snarky, I’ll remember to send him a fruit basket.”

 

“God, I should get a new fake girlfriend,” Louis groans, pulling his hoodie over his head. “Why the fuck do I even know you?”

 

“It’s because I’m fabulous, darling,” Eleanor reminds him, laughing airily. “Who else would tell you that you should let one Harry Styles know that he’s the keeper of your heart – the fire in your loins?”

 

Louis just stalks away.

 

x

 

**Five. Harry Styles.**

 

The thing is that love sucks.

 

The whole concept of being convinced that you’d be incapable of being happy without a certain person reciprocating what you feel for them is just borderline ridiculous, and. Love just really, really, really sucks.

 

And that’s why, on an irritatingly stormy morning, Louis finds himself in his apartment with all of the lights switched off and reruns of Sherlock playing on the television. It’s not like he’s eating his feelings – he hasn’t sunk that low; not yet – but he’s got the entire plastic box of lasagne that Niall had made for him cradled in his lap (“I know you’d rather eat Harry’s,” Niall began, pausing to smirk, “lasagne, but you’ve got to have something that’s not takeout.”) and a tub of ice cream set on the floor by the couch.

 

“Just tell him, John!” Louis wails around a forkful of lasagne, glaring at his television screen as Sherlock blithely just asks John why he cares so much as to what people think of him. “The curly haired shit doesn’t fucking get that you love him!”

 

(It wasn’t that he’d sought out articles about Harry and Taylor’s little outing in Cheshire on purpose. He’d just had DailyMail typed into his browser, and, if he was met with headlines that made him vaguely nauseous, then that was just fate taking the piss. )

 

Louis’ just reaching the bottom of his ice cream tub when his phone goes off; lighting up in the darkness of the flat and sounding out with an obnoxiously loud ringing sound. He doesn’t leap towards it like a man possessed and in dire need of human attention, but he does; choosing to fall off of the sofa and thumbing at his mobile’s screen instantly.

 

 _Lou, buzz me up? – H_ , it says, and Louis furrows his eyebrows suspiciously. Because it’s just as likely, if not more, that Eleanor and Zayn have joined forces and stolen Harry’s phone, attempting to pull some sort of elaborate hoax just to teach Louis a lesson than Harry actually standing downstairs and waiting to be let into his former home.

 

He rises to his feet, shuffling to the intercom that’s set in the foyer, and picking up the receiver. “What d’you want?” he asks quietly.

 

“Left something when I moved,” Harry’s voice comes back through, riddled with static, but it’s deep and it’s gravelly and it’s the same voice Harry used to sing with when he’d wake Louis up in the morning. “Can I come up?”

 

Louis swallows down a groan, opting not to reply and buzzing Harry up through the gates instead.  Harry shouldn’t _have_ to buzz up, shouldn’t _have_ to stand outside and wait to be let into the building. Because it’s just as much his flat as it’s Louis’, and that’s just it, isn’t it? Louis doesn’t get how Harry could just move out and call somewhere else his home.

 

A few low knocks reverberate in the quiescence minutes later, so Louis pans this out; unlatches the lock slowly, swings the door open.

 

And there’s Harry. There’s Harry towering above him, his curls damp and matted to his head, the green of his eyes dark and flecked with light.

 

“What’d you forget?” Louis asks without preamble, stepping back and letting Harry through. He sounds petulant, he knows, but it’s not like it matters.

 

Harry smiles, something fierce and genuine and beautiful.  He bites down on his bottom lip, and Louis follows the movement, follows it closely until Harry’s pointing a finger right at his chest.  

 

“The jumper? I’m pretty sure it’s mine, Haz.”

 

Harry gapes at him, an exasperated sound vibrating in his throat as he fists Louis’ jumper in his hand. “You’re an idiot,” he states, words barely audible. “You’re such a fucking idiot.”

 

There’s a second, maybe not even that, when Harry just cups Louis’ neck and pulls him closer, pulls him so impossibly closer. But Louis doesn’t register it, because Harry’s lips are on his a heartbeat later; sure and warm and a little bit like home. Louis snakes his arms around Harry’s waist; fingertips digging into the small of his back and making sure there’s no way Harry can move away.

 

“You could have done that before, you know,” he rasps into Harry’s mouth, craning his neck back to look up at Harry.

 

Harry rolls his eyes, but his lips are skewed into a smile and he looks impossibly fond. “You could have, too.”

 

“That’s really not the point, Styles.”

 

“I’m still here to get the jumper, by the way,” Harry insists, bending down to peck the corner of Louis’ mouth.

 

Louis just laughs and kisses him again. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm hazzabearfiction on Tumblr (yes, I know, I need to change my url), and feedback would be brilliant??? :D Xx


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